


Deaths' Companion

by Dladytimetravel



Category: Deaths' soldiers and bodyguards
Genre: F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2020-03-09 04:44:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18909823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dladytimetravel/pseuds/Dladytimetravel
Summary: A young woman, bestowed with psychic powers at the day of her birth, becomes a companion to many Deaths.  They not only drive her crazy, but also inflict near-term violence on anyone who either bear her ill will and or tries to hurt her...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone:
> 
> I wanted to bring another story here, but with new characters and plot. And add a lot of morbid humor, mixed generously with mature language and graphic violence, as I write.
> 
> Please feel free to add your comments and/or, if possible, so constructive comments that would help me get better at writing these stories (please be kind!).
> 
> Once again, thanks to all you guys reading this story. I hope this prove to be entertaining.
> 
> Regards,
> 
> Dladytimetravel

Oh, God.

They're doing it again.

I always have been accompanied by Deaths, all my life since I've been born.  Or so, my mom says.  Different kinds of Deaths representing assassinations, airplane crashes, disease and pestilence.  Deaths representing wars and strides, murders, etc (of all kinds, including fatal attraction/stalking, you name it, other representatives of Deaths came too).

Not to mention a visit from Lord Master Death Himself. Tall, majestic and imposing with an intimidating, no-nonsense powerful aura, Lord Death immediately commands the awe and respect of his untold hundreds of billions of Deaths at Gods knows how many world, universes, alter EarthWorld alternate universes and timelines. Always he wore his trademark signature Royal robe, a Stygian black floor-dragging outfit, complete with good that almost entirely covered his head save his face. His trademark scepter was the long scythe which was made out of sterling sliver-and-black, with an elegant but deadly razor-sharp long curve that ended with a wicked, razor-sharp tip. Year after year, Lord Death always made it a habit to personally attend every birthday, without fail.   Every.  Single. Year.  Which freaks me the hell out.  After several years has passed, I finally got enough courage (A LOT of courage, for what Lord Death decrees, demands and orders to be carried out, it would immediately be done, without question) to ask The King of Total Demise a question that has been bothering for as long as I can remember. Yes, folks, it's official. I must have a death wish, okay. No pun intended. Seriously. Only a suicidal or crazy person would test Lord Death, so I guess that would qualify me of being both. A suicidal crazy broad. But, I gotta ask. I figured, a person could only live once. Well, here goes... On my 13th birthday, I asked Lord Death what was so important about me that warranted an on-screen visit from Him, I was no different or better than any other person living (or dead).  He would only give me that patient, gentle smile that never fail to both comfort and give me the creeps and says, "little one, you are indeed different.  And special," His voice was so deep, masculine, sexy and, at the same time, omnipresent, no-nonsense and very, very majestic.  He then gently tilts my chin slightly upright, forcing my light brown eyes to look directly into his well-known colored eyes, continuing, "child, you are a Destined One.  Both Fate and Destiny says you was born with The Mark, and that you are to be given protection from my people always, until your destiny become fulfilled.  Whatever it is.  Even I do not know what it is, only that I am to give you protection always".

"But.."  I don't feel like anyone special, or like royalty.  I would be happy just getting treated as a normal human being, with courtesy, kindness and respect.  I prefer working for a living, and not feel any entitlement for people to give me stuff.  I like working and being independent."

"'But' nothing, little one", Lord-Master Death adamantly replies back, His voice raised a tiny bit higher, irritated with my protest.  His word was final.  No room whatever for further protest or discussion. "You will get used to your companions in time.  There are those who wish and want you in their possession, to be used as a weapon for their own ends.  As long as your companions accompany and give you protection, no one would dare bring you harm, lest they want to incur my eternal ire and wrath.  Which they, believe me, do not wish, let alone want to do."

One more question, I had to ask--i know, I know, I'm really pushing that envelope. Must have mental issues.

"Lord Death, don't get pissed with me, I have to, needed to ask--why are you showering so much underserved attention and favor, when there are people so much more deserving of your time. I'm no superhero. I'm not a doctor, or a saintly person. Not even close. I'm an average human being. I eat, drink, take care of myself, work for a living. I did and said things in my early years I wish I could take back that I'm regretting to high heaven for. I had two unsatisfying relationships with people who later cheated on me and left me, 'cause I was frigid and didn't believe in having non-martial sex and employed language that would make a sailor blush. I'm not raving beauty, possess an healthy body and all that. I'm just...me."

Giving me one of his rare, VERY rare chuckles, Lord Death grins, "I know that. I know everything about you, already, and more that you had no need to tell, young one. Which is one of the attributes I appreciate in a human woman. You are refreshingly blunt, and honest in your actions, both verbal and in deed. Honest, but not cruel towards others, and go out your way not to bring harm unless unnecessarily and unfairly provoked. Woe be to anyone, mortal or other that incur that sword-sharp tongue of yours. Yet when around those you care about, you are warm and kind, willing to put yourself at harm's way. That, and more makes me proud to know one such as you.  
You are more than that, so much more..."

Those words of kindness made tears of gratitude made tears rush to my eyes. Lord Death  
very rare give living creatures, especially mortals kind words, for he always kept himself at arms' length like the King and Master of what I'd call The Big Sleep he was. Wow. I am sooo much in awe of this major God-Dude. Absolute awe...

Vanishing, Lord Death gives me last word of wisdom, "do not sell yourself short, my child. You will someday find your true worth. And Destiny, whatever that is. You are much, much more than you think. Fare well, for now..." He then vanishes, leaving behind an stunned, astonished and very awestruck female with her mouth gaping wide open like some dodo bird.

 

And that was that.  Case closed.

A few years--and many Death 'companions', more like bodyguards--later, I am a full-blown adult of all 24 years of age, working, and have my own apartment.

And yes, I still have Death companions accompanying me, and staying with me at my apartment.  

Speaking of my friends...

One of them suddenly arrives at the scene, a dude in his mid-to-late 40s dressed like someone who were around in either the late 1920s to early 1930s. Tall, a little on the slight, husky build side, he was a rugged, good-looking man who looks like one of those detectives from an Warner Brothers crime drama, complete with a gun shoulder holster on the right-hand side of his frame. His hair was jet black with some streaks of silver of both side of his face, and he wore a thin, slender but evil-looking knife scar that travelled from the upper side of his forehead past his right eye downward to his neck. I shudder to think how that wound looked, when it was freshly made--I bet it looked nasty, bloody and gross. Ewww. 

He wore a nice, expensive, three piece thin stripped business suit, which was once a big fashion thingy among gangsters and professional business people back in his day, dark blue with light blue-colored strips, with a dark blue derby hat and black shoes shined perfectly to a shine like sheen with black socks. His hair was nearly combed back, also shiny, and well tended, the way a man should always keep himself. Clean, nice-smelling and reasonably self well-cared fire. Don't have to look like a millionaire or rich person, as long as the man takes care of himself and smell and look neat and clean, I'll be happy.

He spoke English a bit on the rough side, but I can understand what he says when spoken to. But boy, when angry, he sure knows how to use cuss words. The things coming out of that sensual, hot lips...whoa.

Just imagine being around areas, such as landfills, opened sanitation trucks, an unclogged stomped-up heavily-soiled toilet combined with vomit pouring out people suffering from next-day hangovers.

And then blend all the ingredients together, and morphed into cuss words and insults.

Use your imagination...

Ugly and toxic.

Fortunately for me, the guy treats me with respect, like a lady. Thank God.

Whew!

He's my companion for the week, commissioned to keep me out of harm's way, and at the same time prevent me from making an utter ass out of myself, every now and then. Which sometimes drives us both crazy, for there were times when I gotten into physical fistfights with people both male and female, and I would fight people either by themselves or even if they had groups of people. I didn't give a shit; I figured if I had to go down I swore to take as many people with me before making the final count. My invisible friend always made sure there were one-on-one  
alterations, and God help those who tried to jump me; that would always result with bloody, semi-conscious bodies on the floor. There was the time, when I was only 11 years old, I got bullied in class, day in and day out. Called all kinds of foul, terrible names because I always wore jeans and a colorful sweatshirt to school, resulting with some of the bullies getting jealous. I mean, what the hell? The clothes I wore wasn't expensive or name brand material, just nice stuff. Regular stuff. That didn't matter to the bullies. I was a marked target since. For weeks afterwards my life was made a living hell. Until I couldn't take it anymore, and challenged them to a fistfight. One on one action. Yeah, right. No such luck. I was jump the moment I stepped outside. I was covered with slaps and punches, non-stop. Either I would run or stop and fight. One or the other choice. I decided to fight. My life depended on it. Three against one. Nice. Assholes. Their war cry, "Lets get the stupid little retarded bitch!!! Got her, got her!!!" F**k that, I thought. It's now Showtime. I grabbed whatever weapon I could find on the cross-border ground outside. Soon I had a ragged glass bottle in one hand, a large wide tree branch with the other, and started swinging like some one possessed by a demon. Or The Devil. Didn't care. I fought, slashed and swing my forced weapon of choice, like a marksman, without a second thought but survival, at any cost. Swung and slashed, swung, slash, swung, slashed... There were a lot of blood on the ground. Small puddles and streaks of the red stuff. Some of mine, a lot of it theirs. Three of the bullies had their faces and arms slashed by the jagged glass bottle, their heads and whatever body parts I reached banged up and bruised by the tree (very heavy) tree branch. One of them, from the bottle I used, had one of her eyes torn out her socket, the organ hanging at a grisly length away from her now f***ed up face. It was either me or them. I walked away with a busted mouth, a bruised and bleeding nose (thank God it wasn't broken, that would had been a long road for me to walk), two black eyes and a possible minor head concussion and torn clothes. But with my self-esteem and respect intact. After that ugly episode I was known as That Crazy Bitch who took On A Bunch of Bullies and Won. No one ever picked on me anymore after that wild, crazy scene. In the end, we would both stand before Lord Death and had to explain why there were folks almost near death from deserved beatings. This happens once in a rare mood (thank goodness!) and I always try like hell, not to get into situations resulting in history repeating itself, over and over again.

I try, really try to keep out of trouble. I really do. But it seems like trouble always find a way of  
getting me into scraps anyway.

Sigh...


	2. 1920s Gang Wars and Soul Collectors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sent to Late 1920s New York and Chicago, the story's heroine got to see, first-hand Soul Collectors claiming the life-essences of Mobsters and Hoodlums. And again, as usual, finds herself in the Roaring Twenties...

Hoo-boy.

Lord Death is slightly miffed with me.  Again.

Once again I've gotten myself into trouble-- _for the Umpteenth time, Agh!!--_ getting into fights at Grimm Reaper High School for Promising Soul Claimers.  One of the popular girls from Skank Central pissed me off, embarrassing and harassing me all day at school, calling me names--for fun.  More like spite, the nasty bitch.  She couldn't get over the horror of me gaining the attention of one of the senior students, a tall and triple pale-skinned handsome dude by the name of Paul Wolfbane.  All he did was thanking me for giving him the 'heads-up' that the principal, a John Travolta lookalike, was looking for him (he slept with one of his seven daughters) and wanted to seriously discipline (more like wanting to beat the unholy shit outta) him.  How the hell was I to know that Paul and Nikkie Ravenslit--her name should have been Raven _slut_ instead; she's slept with more than half the male population student body, and happily bragged of her sexual conquests--was an item??!   Sheesh, was that bitch ever pissed-off.

"Hey, freak," Nikkie shouted, "I'm talking to you, Miss Virgin Pearl!!!"

Oh, Gods of ten thousand Hells, I thought, I  _hate_ that name, Miss Virgin Pearl.  Makes me sound like a goddammed Saint of the Heaven Territories, like an Ice Queen or something.

I yawned, "what do you want now, Queen of Skanks?  What have I done, this time?"

Her greenish-blue eyes flashing pure hatred my way, Nikkie hissed, "you know what you did, or tried to do, freak-girl!  You better stay away from my Paul, if you know what's good for you!"

Along with Nikkie was her back-up, kiss-ass squad of the cheerleader squad, a redheaded big-busted fellow skank, Tiffanie a blue-eyed girl possessing an ass that would do Kim Kardashian proud and another girl, Diana, whose smouldering gray eyes was staring at me as if I were worth less than fertilizer.  All three girls was labelled behind their backs as the Leg Spreader Trio, all the popular guys always took them to the best restaurants, the best parties and always wore them on trips as arm candy.

Guess I would be popular, too, if I were putting out to every good-looking guy in school AND also rich older Death men in town.  Go figure.

I purposely ignored the Leg Spreader Trio, and continued walking down the school corridor towards the entrance to my next class, when I immediately felt something soggy, wet and nasty hitting the back of my neck.  I also felt my face burn beet-red with rage, as I removed the soggy baseball-sized spit ball off my neck, mentally calling those 'ladies'--which I termed them loosely--all kinds of female assholes, skank sluts, whores and sperm receptors...

By this time there were a large crowd of people in the hallway, who exploded laughing at what Nikkie and her Professional Virgins did to me.  Some of them were sliding down the walls, half-laughing, half-crying from laughing so hard, while others were already on the expensive marble floor rocking their bodies from side-to-side--at my expense, naturally.

By this time I was seething-pissed.  Angry enough to want to kill.  Humiliated beyond description.

And I vowed to make Nikkie and her whore-cohorts pay.  One way or another...

I build all my rage, all my hatred, and squeezed them into a tiny emotional ball; I'd be damned if I let these bitches see me cry, let alone break me.  Sweetly, I replied, "is that the best you can do, Nikkie honey?  Really, a spit ball.  How utterly childish of you. Boo-boo.  Boo, hoo-boo."

Then one of my closest friends, a Coral Snakeian girl by the name of Feather came to my rescue. Feather was, despite her coral snake coloring, was one of the most sweetest, most gentle people I've ever have the pleasure for a best friend.  Quiet, almost shy, she usually keeps to herself.  However, mess with one of her friends, family or loved ones, and Feather becomes quickly a force to be reckoned with.  She never spoke a cuss word in her life, but what verbally comes out of her mouth was toxic enough to peel paint off walls.  Even some of the most notorious bullies at school knew better than to mess with Feather; in the first year of high school there were a few who tried to bully and terrorise Feather, years ago.  They soon learned to regret it.  If her mouth wasn't razor-sharp enough to make them leave her alone, the coral venom she sprayed convinced them otherwise.  The venom Feather spat out of her slim, petite fangs was acidic, and the moment the liquid touched skin caused horrific second-to-almost-third degree burns.  Afterwards everyone gave my friend mucho macho respect.

Even Nikkie and her friends paused when seeing Feather, who hissed, "are you picking on my friend again?  Don't you STD-spreading hoe-cows have anything else to do?  Like keeping your thighs closed, for a change?"

Tiffanie splutters, "who don't you mind your business, snake bitch?  No one was talking to you."

Nonchalantly Feather walks past Nikkie and Diana and gets right up close in Tiffanie's face, smiling, "But. I. Was. Talking. To  _You,_ whore.  Wanna try something with  _me??"_

Sweat of the purest fear was pouring out Tiffanie's pores, gently cascading down both sides of her pretty face.  She stares fearfully at Nikkie for a few moments, looking for direction and getting none.  Diana was just about to attack Feather from the back, when I ran and jumped on Diana first, fists swinging and pounding blows on her head, face and neck.  What a female walking douche bag, jumping someone from the back instead of fighting face-to-face.  Grabbing tufts and loads of Diana's black head by the scalp, I used all my strength and pummeled her face on the floor.  Slamming it again and again and again until it was glistening and covered in puddles of blood, resulting with cheers from the crowd of people already in the hallway.

Tiffanie and Nikkie ran to Diana's defense, only to get snake venom spat in their faces, clothes and hair.  The girls scream their agony and horror as their faces immediately began melting off, cussing the most vile names at me and Feather.

That was when Mr. Linn (the John Travolta lookalike) appeared out of nowhere (he was a Realmnite Warlock), his no-nonsense voice boomed, "what the hell is going on here?"

Some of the kids told him what happened, and Mr. Linn waste zero time using his powers to summon an ambulance to take the girls to Grimm City Hospital, to tend to their injuries.  Me and Feather was both ordered to accompany Mr. Linn to his office.  Boy, were we ever chewed out. I begged and pleaded for Feather to be spared, she had nothing to do with what happened but was all Nikkie and her friends--the Super Bitches'--fault.  I even told how I was picked on and of them throwing that oversized spit ball at me.  

In the end my parents were called along with Feathers' parents.  They were livid, and complained how and why should their daughters get into trouble when they were only defending themselves?

Nothing doing, Mr. Linn said, we should have went to him first, instead of taking justice into our hands. 

In the end, Feather and I was later suspended from school for the next three weeks, while our parents had to pay for medical expenses incurred from the injuries those nasty walking, talking STDs suffered.  So totally unfair.  Man, was me and Feather ever furious.  The only good thing that came out of all.this was because we kicked the shit out The Leg Spreading Trio, me and Feather was made heroes.  Everyone afterwards wanted to be our friend afterwards.  Isn't this was some wild shit?

Ladies Fate and Destiny was tickled pink, when finding out my latest disaster at school.  They did everything possible to cheer me up, Lady Fate was nice enough to make me milkshakes while Lady Destiny spoke in my behalf to Lord Death, so as to lessen my punishment.

In the end I was to stay my few weeks a couple thousand years backwards through time to Anicent 20th Century America, to the Roaring Twenties.  "Hopefully you would stay out of trouble, little one.  You are truly a walking disaster, my child."  But he was smiling.

"I really want to travel to the year 2016, when two political Powerweights, Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton competed to become President of the United States", I protested, "Lady Aisllyn were there, and got to see everything.  The debates.  And she even got an invite to attend the celebration party Mr. Trump had."

"Lady Aisllyn had no business in 2016", Lord Death replied, "she should have been collecting souls on both forces of those Vietnam War instead.  She was later punished for that, by collecting souls who perished during World Wars I and II, and later the Korean War."

I cringed.  I heard all about that awful punishment.  Lady Aisllyn was almost six months pregnant with Lady Rebekka (a Milla Jonovich lookalike) during that time period, going into labor while collecting more than 3.5 million souls.  Lady Rebekka was born a premie (pre-mature), but fought for her tiny life, like a super tigeress.  Now many, many thousands of years later Lady Rebekka was one of the feared and respected Uber huntress-assassins for Lord Death.

Now I gotta travel to Gangtown, Old School Mobsters and Gangsters.  Terrific.  And I'm being sarcastic here.  But no one questions Lord Death, let alone disobeys his orders and commands--unless they're either crazy as triple hell.  Or suicidal.  I'm neither both.  Thank goodness.

After packing up a few things I needed, clothes, underwear, sleepwear and toiletries, I was reluctantly ready.  I had only two large suitcases, and good to go.

Gods and goddesses help me...

  


  



	3. 1920s Gang Wars and Soul Collectors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sent to Late 1920s New York and Chicago, the story's heroine got to see, first-hand Soul Collectors claiming the life-essences of Mobsters and Hoodlums. And again, as usual, finds herself in the Roaring Twenties...  
> (And they. story how she ended there)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a correction of the other one I did earlier. I had to add other stuff. Sorry for any confusion, president please feel free for any needed constructive criticism, be kind. Thanks...  
>  DLT..

 

I was punished one last time, by Lord Death, by being made to listen to my potty mouth in his presence.  Lords of light.  No to mention having to spend some quality time thousands of years in the Roaring Twenties.

(Note:  I had to redo this chapter over again, and add some other stuff.  My apologies.  LT.)

 

HERE GOES (again)...

Once again I've gotten myself into trouble-- _for the Umpteenth time, Agh!!--_ getting into fights at Grimm Reaper High School for Promising Soul Claimers.  One of the popular girls from Skank Central pissed me off, embarrassing and harassing me all day at school, calling me names--for fun.  More like spite, the nasty bitch.  She couldn't get over the horror of me gaining the attention of one of the senior students, a tall and triple pale-skinned handsome dude by the name of Paul Wolfbane.  All he did was thanking me for giving him the 'heads-up' that the principal, a John Travolta lookalike, was looking for him (he slept with one of his seven daughters) and wanted to seriously discipline (more like wanting to beat the unholy shit outta) him.  How the hell was I to know that Paul and Nikkie Ravenslit--her name should have been Raven _slut_ instead; she's slept with more than half the male population student body, and happily bragged of her sexual conquests--was an item??!   Sheesh, was that bitch ever pissed-off.

"Hey, freak," Nikkie shouted, "I'm talking to you, Miss Virgin Pearl!!!"

Virgin Pearl??!

Oh, Gods of ten thousand Hells, I thought, I  _hate_ that name, Miss Virgin Pearl.  Makes me sound like a goddammed Saint of the Heaven Territories, like an Ice Queen or something.

I yawned, "what do you want now, Queen of Skanks?  What have I done, this time?"

Her greenish-blue eyes flashing pure hatred my way, Nikkie hissed, "you know what you did, or tried to do, freak-girl!  You better stay away from my Paul, if you know what's good for you!"

Me?  Take Paul away?   I hardly know the guy.  Dumb broad.  Have she been drinking too much time again?   Horrors.

Along with Nikkie was her back-up, kiss-ass squad of the cheerleader squad, a redheaded big-busted fellow skank, Tiffanie a blue-eyed girl possessing an ass that would do Kim Kardashian proud and another girl, Diana, whose smouldering gray eyes was staring at me as if I were worth less than fertilizer.  All three girls was labelled behind their backs as the Leg Spreader Trio, all the popular guys always took them to the best restaurants, the best parties and always wore them on trips as arm candy.  Wearing the most fashionable clothes that made a lot of girls teeth-gnashing jealous.

Guess I would be popular, too, if I were putting out to every good-looking guy in school AND also rich older Death men in town.  Go figure.  Guess (to Nikkie and Comapny) it pays to lie on your back.  Or on your knees...

I purposely ignored the Leg Spreader Trio, and continued walking down the school corridor towards the entrance to my next class, when I immediately felt something soggy, wet and nasty hitting the back of my neck.  I also felt my face burn beet-red with rage, as I removed the soggy baseball-sized spit ball off my neck, mentally calling those 'ladies'--which I termed them loosely--all kinds of female assholes, skank sluts, whores and sperm receptors...

By this time there were a large crowd of people in the hallway, who exploded laughing at what Nikkie and her Professional Virgins did to me.  Some of them were sliding down the walls, half-laughing, half-crying from laughing so hard, while others were already on the expensive marble floor rocking their bodies from side-to-side--at my expense, naturally.

By this time I was seething-pissed.  Angry enough to want to kill. Getting humiliated beyond description wasn't part of my must-have.  Not even close...

And I vowed to make Nikkie and her whore-cohorts pay.  One way or another...

I build all my rage, all my hatred, and squeezed them into a tiny emotional ball; I'd be damned if I let these bitches see me cry, let alone break me.  Sweetly, I replied, "is that the best you can do, Nikkie honey?  Really, a spit ball.  How utterly childish of you. Boo-boo.  Boo, hoo-boo."

"You should be fortunate, and honored of receiving out spit," Tiffanie snickered, "there are men out there, who would proudly pay us a lot of money, for that!"

"Yeah, right", I sneered, "I just pray to the gods that I won't catch herpes, or some other form of STDs from you bitches' spit.  Gods know where it came from."

"What the hell you mean by that, you freak bitch?" A flustered Nikkie wanted to know.

"Well", I explained, unmistakable malice in my voice, "let's see.  Nikkie caught herpes last month in her mouth, and her rich daddy's money paid for super-expensive treatments.  Diana still has the Clap and is still receiving treatments.  Hahahahhhaaaa!!!"

Then one of my closest friends, a Coral Snakeian girl by the name of Feather came to my rescue. Feather was, despite her coral snake coloring, was one of the most sweetest, most gentle people I've ever have the pleasure for a best friend.  Quiet, almost shy, she usually keeps to herself.  However, mess with one of her friends, family or loved ones, and Feather becomes quickly a force to be reckoned with.  She never spoke a cuss word in her life, but what verbally comes out of her mouth was toxic enough to peel paint off walls.  Even some of the most notorious bullies at school knew better than to mess with Feather; in the first year of high school there were a few who tried to bully and terrorise Feather, years ago.  They soon learned to regret it.  If her mouth wasn't razor-sharp enough to make them leave her alone, the coral venom she sprayed convinced them otherwise.  The venom Feather spat out of her slim, petite fangs was acidic, and the moment the liquid touched skin caused horrific second-to-almost-third degree burns.  Afterwards everyone gave my friend mucho macho respect.

Even Nikkie and her friends paused when seeing Feather, who hissed, "are you picking on my friend again?  Don't you STD-spreading hoe-cows have anything else to do?  Like keeping your thighs closed, for a change?"

Tiffanie splutters, "who don't you mind your business, snake bitch?  No one was talking to you."

Nonchalantly Feather walks past Nikkie and Diana and gets right up close in Tiffanie's face, smiling, "But. I. Was. Talking. To  _You,_ whore.  Wanna try something with  _me??"_

Sweat of the purest fear was pouring out Tiffanie's pores, gently cascading down both sides of her pretty face.  She stares fearfully at Nikkie for a few moments, looking for direction and getting none.  Diana was just about to attack Feather from the back, when I ran and jumped on Diana first, fists swinging and pounding blows on her head, face and neck.  What a female walking douche bag, jumping someone from the back instead of fighting face-to-face.  Grabbing tufts and loads of Diana's black head by the scalp, I used all my strength and pummeled her face on the floor.  Slamming it again and again and again until it was glistening and covered in puddles of blood, resulting with cheers from the crowd of people already in the hallway.

Tiffanie and Nikkie ran to Diana's defense, only to get snake venom spat in their faces, clothes and hair.  The girls scream their agony and horror as their faces immediately began melting off, cussing the most vile names at me and Feather.

That was when Mr. Linn (the John Travolta lookalike) appeared out of nowhere (he was a Realmnite Warlock), his no-nonsense voice boomed, "what the hell is going on here?"

Some of the kids told him what happened, and Mr. Linn waste zero time using his powers to summon an ambulance to take the girls to Grimm City Hospital, to tend to their injuries.  Me and Feather was both ordered to accompany Mr. Linn to his office.  Boy, were we ever chewed out. I begged and pleaded for Feather to be spared, she had nothing to do with what happened but was all Nikkie and her friends--the Super Bitches'--fault.  I even told how I was picked on and of them throwing that oversized spit ball at me.  

In the end my parents were called along with Feathers' parents.  They were livid, and complained how and why should their daughters get into trouble when they were only defending themselves?

Nothing doing, Mr. Linn said, we should have went to him first, instead of taking justice into our hands. 

In the end, Feather and I was later suspended from school for the next three weeks, while our parents had to pay for medical expenses incurred from the injuries those nasty walking, talking STDs suffered.  So totally unfair.  Man, was me and Feather ever furious.  The only good thing that came out of all.this was because we kicked the shit out The Leg Spreading Trio, me and Feather was made heroes.  Everyone afterwards wanted to be our friend afterwards.  Isn't this was some wild shit?

And the best part?  Unknowing to me, Lord Death was watching all this from the throne room of one of his many fortress-castles located in the Death Territories.  Great.  Terrific.

And he wasn't exactly happy.

Ladies Fate and Destiny was tickled pink, when finding out my latest disaster at school.  They did everything possible to cheer me up, Lady Fate was nice enough to make me milkshakes while Lady Destiny spoke in my behalf to Lord Death, so as to lessen my punishment.

LADY FATE:  Oh, brother, be lenient with the kid.  She did what she felt necessary to defend herself against those three teenaged harlots, who have been harassing her for the majority of this year.

LADY DESTINY:  Yeah, give the little one a break.

LORD DEATH:   _ **The girl should have notified the school's principal of the females' verbal harassment, before taking things into her own hands.**_

LADY FATE (getting exasperated): She would have, if she had the time, but those sexually-challenged Professional Virgins attempted to attack her, front the back.  Like the cowards they are.  She didn't have any other choice, but to do whatever necessary to defend herself.

LADY DESTINY:  Exactly!

LORD DEATH:   _ **Perhaps, but was it really necessary for the girl to halfway crush her would've been attacker's skull, and punched both her eyes shut?**_

Both Ladies giggled for several minutes.

LADY DESTINY: Listen, brother, things worked out for the little one in the end.  She and that Snake girl became heroes to everyone at school.  Now people want to be their friend.  I think that's wonderful.  

LORD DEATH:   _ **Perhaps so, but the parents of those bullies want financial compensation for the injuries their daughters suffered.  Do you think that's fair?**_

The woman snorted their disgust, shaking their heads disbelieving.

LADY DESTINY:  Oh, yes, right.  Blame the victim.  Make the bullies the innocents. Isn't this some truly messed-up...

_**Yup.** _

In the end I was to stay my few weeks a couple thousand years backwards through time to Anicent 20th Century America, to the Roaring Twenties. Lord Death was indeed smiling, hugging me and giving me fatherly pecks on the cheek, while I hugged him.back, mentally sulking.  I wanted to instead go to 2016 America, to attend first hand the newly-anointed President of the United States, Donald Trump.  

No such luck.  Lord Death wasn't haven't it.  I pouted.

"I really want to travel to the year 2016, when two political Powerweights, Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton competed to become President of the United States", I protested, "Lady Aisllyn were there, and got to see everything.  The debates.  And she even got an invite to attend the celebration party Mr. Trump had with his supporters."

 _ **"First of all**_ ", Lord Death replied, _**"Lady Aisllyn had no business there, in The Year 2016.  She was supposed to be collecting souls of those who had fought in WW1, some of them to be sent to the Heaven Territories while others to be brought to either the Hell Territories or the Reincarnation Lands.  Two, believe me little one, the Lady Aisllyn paid dearly for disobeying my orders.  She was punished by not only having to collect those WW1 souls, but additionally those who died or about to die in WWII, The Korean War and the Vietnam was, as well."**_

I cringed.  I heard all about that awful punishment.  Lady Aisllyn was almost six months pregnant with Lady Rebekka (a Milla Jonovich lookalike) during that time period, going into labor while collecting more than 3.5 million souls.  All the Deaths, both young and old, protested, saying that punishment was too extreme even for them but Lord Death didn't want to here it.  He made it abundantly clear that Deaths are not to get involved in any fashion in religion or politics--it was forbidden.  Period.  Lady Aisllyn, a tall and majestically beautiful redhead Death woman, protested,.saying all she wanted to do.was see history in person unfold.  She would acted the same way if Hillary Clinton had won and became President.

Lady Rebekka was born a preemie (pre-mature), but fought for her tiny life, like a super tigress.  Now many, many thousands of years later Lady Rebekka was one of the feared and respected Uber huntress-assassins for Lord Death.  Because of Rebekka's early birth Lady Aisllyn didn't speak again to Lord Death for more than 3,400 years, and only the gentle persuasion of her husband (who was one of Lord Death's many elder sons) Lord Orcher, a Red Masque Death made her finally speak to the Grim Keeper ruler.

Now I gotta travel to Gangtown--meaning Old School Mobsters and Gangsters. We're talking about Chicago and New York.  As punishment.  Machine guns.  Prohibition whiskeys. Gangsters and T-Men.

Terrific.

 And I'm being sarcastic. 

But no one questions Lord Death, let alone disobey his orders and commands, ever--unless they're either crazy as triple hell.  Or suicidal.  I'm neither one of the other.  Thank goodness.

After packing up a few things I needed, clothes, underwear, sleepwear and toiletries, I was reluctantly ready.  I had only two large suitcases, and was good to go.

Gods and goddesses help me...

 

 


	4. Scareye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuck in early 1930s Chicago, my heroine and one of the Deaths, a guy who once lived as an hoodlum-turner cop murdered at Scarface Al Capone's orders, decided to have a little fun at the Montmartre Cafe...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My OG gets to meet the legendary Eliot Ness...

_Oh, boy_ , I thought to myself,  while being escorted with Scareye to one of the better tables at the Montmartre Cafe, which was one of Al Capone's fancy speakeasies in Chicago.  Briefly surveying some of the expensive but scantily-dressed flapper women, some more flamboyant than others the tall, lean but slightly muscular in appearance, Death-warrior wore his usually sardonic smirk like expression.  His rugged face wore the beginnings of a goatee beard, Scareye's nonchalant ice-cold greyish-blue eyes busy mentally undressing quick eye a few of the lady patrons, who busied themselves drinking booze from flanks they kept inside their dinner purses, laughing and giggling with male companions of various ages.  While the people at the Cafe was having the time of their lives, scores of Capone bodyguards and bouncers made sure everything was run smoothly, all of them wore the customary shoulder holsters containing their firearms.  Loud jazz music was being played by a live orchestra, the hot, sensually piping sounds exciting some of the people long enough to get out their chairs and dance.  

As the music blared and blasted throughout the Cafe dance floor, the women shimmied, sashshayed and flared their legs and arms to The Charleston and other popular dances of the time.  As some of them happily wriggle and shook slender hips, now and then exposed naked breasts would pop out their flapper dresses, resulting with their male dancing partners getting sexually excited seeing all that tantalizing female flesh.  Two, three, maybe four of the happy guys became so overly excited they would press the woman tighter, crushing them in their arms while whispering ribid, sexually coarse suggestions while grinding their bodies even more tighter.  And because these was the Roaring Twenties period where women became more independent, and also sexual uninhibited the flapper females happily reciprocated the erotic attentions given them by grinding their bodies against their dancer partners, wrapping sleek, slender arms around the men's necks...

Oh, there were a few of the women there who found themselves attracted to Scareye, and did everything possible to incur his interest.  They tried talking with him, engaging conversation to find out what made him tick, one or two of them even became so bold, so as to actually walk up to him, press their bodies against his, and whispered all kinds of nasty stuff in his ear.  One female, a young blonde woman in either her mid-to-late twenties, got so bold and daring she whispered in his ear, and offer to give him  _a blow job right then and there,_ shamelessly scooping Jim between the legs.  She got turned off, however, when he whispered, "sorry, honey, I don't have sex with children, thanks anyway".  Highly insulted, the blonde, a big boobed wench possessing at least a 40DD bra huffed and puffed, hissing, "well, I never!" before storming off muttering curse words rough enough to make a U.S. sailor blush...

I found myself mentally smirking.  That was hilarious.  

Not caring about the woman's theatrics, Scareye just shrugged his shoulders before returning to his table shared with me, a crystal wine glass in his hand filled with fine champagne, muttering, "these broads have no class.  Imagine, me getting so desperate to have some bimbo go down on me in public.  There's isn't enough desperation in the world for me to do that--especially in public!"

"Okay", I replied, drinking a glass filled with soda pop, as I watch Scareye sit at the table while sipping his champagne, "nice to know you have scruples, dude."

"Damned right I don't", he affirmed, agreeing, "I don't believe in a woman making moves on me like that, I prefer to be the one doing the picking, and when--or if--i do decide on making love to a woman, I'd rather do it in private to the mutual pleasure of us both.  I'm kinda old fashioned that way.  Sue me."

 _Uh-uh, I'm not touching that one, I'm gonna leave that alone,_ I thought, as I focused sipping the remainder of my soda pop, earning derision stares from the more daring of the females.  I didn't, and couldn't care less what they thought, I'm not gonna end the night with some dude--or dudes--talking about me like a dog cause I made an ass out of myself from drinking booze.  Nah-nah, not gonna happen.  I like myself, and my reputation as being an 'good girl'--even if I do every now and then fall into disastrous situations that isn't my fault...

I was wearing a pretty silver and blue colored velvet dress that barely wear above my ankles, with a matching pair of evening party low heel slippers.  My dark reddish-black colored hair was neatly braided, Mexican style and pinned up with a fancy silver hair clip, and my makeup was light with just a slight touch of blue eyeliner mascara.  The only thing I wore on my lips was a cinnamon-flavored lip balm that gave my lips a nice sheen; no lipstick for me, it feels kinda funny.  To me, anyway.

All night long people were either drinking and partying their butts off.  I saw folks constantly replenishing their glasses with either champagne or some alcohol, drinking the stuff as if it was water, chugging the liquids down their throats.  And as the women busied themselves downing their drinks of choice, whatever inhibitions they held slowly went south of the border.  They became more and more raunchy as time went by and I was fascinated at the females' antics as they became more and more smashed.  So far I witnessed three hair-tearing, clothes-ripping, face-smacking fights, several screeching verbal battles as the combatants employed foul four-lettered invectives and insults that made even some of the men blush.  Threats, accusations, and more four-letter insults were hurled by more than some of the women at each other.  Nasty, ugly insults.

Scareye, long-used to hearing such language--he was the product of the Roaring Twenties and Depression years of the 1930s, in another Timeline alternate EarthWorld universe--was unfazed.  He calmly drank his drink, which was a mixture of scotch, bourbon and eye with a little of Coca Cola added, with an indifference that easily said I Don't Give a Shit, Knock Yourselves Out.  I asked, "how can you act so casual, dude, all these people are acting crazy!"

He smiles, showing perfect ivory-white teeth, "kid, I went through this path before.  I lived through this timeline, experienced and tasted it-before that pig Capone had my behind snuffed out, cause I was too honest for my own good.  Been there.  Did that."

"But, shouldn't something be done?  These fools are killing themselves," I protested.

Scareye's dark eyes somehow became even darker, he growls, "no, we're gonna stay outta this.  Not our business."

_Gee, aren't we grouchy today, I'm keeping my mouth shut for the duration of the rest of the night.  Don't want Mr. Scareye to get pissed-mad and report me to Primal Lord-Master Death, I'd never again be allowed to leave the Death Territories._

"Good girl", the older warrior-death patted my hand approving, making me sulk into my drink, "believe me, kid, it's best that we don't get ourselves involved in this timeline.  Don't want to do or say anything that would accidentally or otherwise change history, you know?"

"Fine, you're the boss", I tersely told him.

"Exactly", he agreed, "exactly."

_Jerk, I thought, I'll do what you say--for now.  But I'm starting to get major bored, and I want some action for myself, now.  I'm psychologically suffocating._

I soon got my wish.  

I then heard the door to the Mortmartre crash, wood being hacked and blasted apart.

Talk about the shit hitting the fan.  More like the door was getting the axe.   _Literally._

Chaos and hell was running over, as scores of armed men burst through what was left of the entrance door, Chicago's finest behind them, armed with both handguns and Thompson machine guns.  Women screamed, men shouting curse words and insults, and the Capone hoodlums rushed to meet the invading cops head-to-head.  A quick but tense gunfight broke out, lasting for not even three to four minutes.  Thankfully no one got killed in the end, but there some injuries.  Non life-threatening, but some of the Capone bouncers had to be taken to nearby hospitals for medical treatment for a few injuries, from bullet wounds to suffering cuts and lacerations to their faces and heads.

Several men wearing average business wear attire, including shoulder holsters containing guns busied themselves tearing the place apart.  They went behind the bar of the Cafe, busting and smashing rows upon rows of bottles filled with booze, using aces to hack up and destroy kegs of beer.  Soon the entire room reeked, the air smelling of both beer and alcohol, causing me to hold my nose to keep from gagging.  The women's screams and yells became louder as they were being escorted out of the building and into waiting police paddy-wagon vans, male patrons yelling, shouting and cussing threats to have the arresting cops lose their badges.

One man in particular--I bet he had to be the leader of the raiding cops--coldly watches the activities, supervising the massive arrests.  Making sure that everything was being done smoothly and without any unwanted hitches.  His eyes was an icy-cold grayish-blue coloring.  Like living stone, a no-nonsense kind of  ** _'Don't Fuck with Me, I'll Kill Your Son-of-a-Bitch-Sorry-Ass"_** kind of eyes.  This dude had the kind of eyes that could easily stare, not at, but  _through_ you, as if you were a nonexistent bug or something.  Creepy eyes.

If it weren't for those stone-cold (more like Ice Age glacial-like) eyes, the mystery dude was actually handsome, in a rugged sort of way.  His hair was a little bit on the curly side, combed back, a dark brownish-black.  He was about, maybe over 5"7 feet tall, give or take a foot, and he carried himself in a military-like bearing, intimidating as triple shit, with absolutely no room for argument.  Wearing a three-pieced beige business suit with spaghetti-thin white pinstripes--what's with these 1930s guys wearing pinstripped suits, what the hell??!--with room for gun shoulder holsters, the dude was well-armed.  I wouldn't be at all surprised, if someone told me this Super Cop's  _entire closet wardrobe_ held nothing else but multiple suits of the exact design.  He'd look like that's all he'd wear...

 When it was my turn to be escorted out, I made sure to be cooperative and not cause any trouble, which Mr. Stone Face (my nickname for Super Cop) appreciated.  As I approached the back entrance to the paddy-wagon (an Old School ancestor to future police vans), I had to slightly lift my dress so I would be able to climb in without tripping and falling off.  Mr. Stone Face then volunteered helping me, saying, "there's no need to do that with your dress, miss, I'll help you," using both arms and hands to easily lift me upwards, while another man, an attractive Italian guy grabbing my arms.

I felt my cheeks go into blushing overload, as I was lifted upwards into the van, gushing, "thank you, sirs, for helping me."  As I was assisted into the van, the Italian cop whispered, "you're really very pretty."  My already deep blush went darker.  Wow.  This dude really thinks I'm pretty.  No man ever called me pretty before.  Wow.

Scareye, however, didn't like it.  His face was now a deep beet-red with anger, he growled, "take your crummy cop paws off her, she's not no goddammed floozie, you lousy copper sonnavabitches!  She's a goddammed  _LADY!!!"_

_Oh gods, Scareye is referring me as 'His Girl'.  Wow.  That's a new one.   I always thought he didn't thought of me anything else but a kid sister or pal.  But 'His Girl??!'  Oh, boy.._

Mr. Stone Face then gives Scareye super icy-cold stares, stares that says if looks could kill he'd easily be dust, snarls,."I wasn't disrespecting the young lady, for your information, but assisting her getting into the fucking van!"

"Yeah, I bet you were", Scareye sneers back, "I'm letting you know I'm watching you, Ness!   Don't you have a WIFE you could paw at home, instead of young ladies?  Or you're one of those cops who think they're above the law?"

Whoa, hold the fava beans. Hold the presses.  Ness.

Ness?

_Ness?????_

_Eliot Ness, like--in ELIOT NESS AND THE UNTOUCHABLES??!_

Geeze, wow, I'm getting actually arrested, not only that but was also held, and physically lifted by the legendary Eliot Ness himself.  Even in the Death Territories, everyone knew of the Untouchables, because come on, Ness brought many, many folks to Primal Lord-Master Death.  And through Him, to the Hell Territories, where the Territories Master and his Hell-Queen, the Perfect Lilith, Queen and Goddess of all Sucubbis and Sucubbi (male and female seduction demons) everywhere.

Wait till I get back home and tell all my friends that i met Eliot Ness!!  Boy, will they ever freak out!!!

 


	5. What the Hell??!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locked inside a jail cell, my OCs found themselves more and more involved into events at 1930s USA-America Chicago. They would later meet and befriend the notorious stripper/gang moll Brandy LaFrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some action, lots of sexual highjicks and Scareye getting major laid by a sexy gangster moll. I am slowly introducing other characters as I continue writing this story, as I go along. Please be kind with any constructive criticisms given, I'm not perfect but am constantly working on bettering and improving this series. Thanks...

What a way to end would have been a fun evening.

Arrested at a Mortal 1930s Chicago gangsters' speakeasy

Wonderful.

Terrific.

The jall cells smelled like unholy hell, several of them larger than others and more than a few smelling not too badly.  Others smelled like a hot mess, a stomach-churning mixture of rotten roadkill, human hangover vomit, stale cheap cigarettes stench added with mixed with onion/garlic long-unwashed armpits.  The combined odors making me nearly gag, twisting my stomach.

Worse, the females (me included) were stuffed and crammed into the cell seven, eight people into our wonderful accommodations--and I'm being sarcastic, here--what was jokingly called a hall room cell, one of the females including a gaudy, flashy-dressed blonde.  She was all decked out, dressed to impress (men, naturally) wearing a sequined shapeless flapper dress that barely covering her big boobs, one of her nipples fighting to come out and proudly expose itself.  Both her arms and wrists was covered, displaying lots of different and unmistakably expensive bracelets in colors of different shades of red, hot red, and Screw Me red.  Almost all the fingers on both hands, save her thumbs, was decked out in diamond and red emerald ruby rings.  Her shoes was blinding red stilettos, three to four inches high, the coloring matching the flapper woman's headband she wore on her blonde head.

Brandy LaFrance, nee Barbara Gusik, niece of Jake 'Greasy Thumb' Gusik, was Alphonse 'Scarface Al' Capone's Mob Treasurer.  She however prefers people to call her Brandy LaFrance, who was at the time, one of the hottest and famous strippers in Chicago.  She performed nightly at the Chicago's Burlesque Theater, where hundreds of horny men fill up seats to full capacity every night, making tons of money for the Capone Mob.  And since she was one of the Mob's top moneymakers Brandy was always paid top dollar, singing her trademark song, "I'll Save My Love for You", driving men wild as she strips off her clothes, in the end wearing flesh-colored nipple pasties and tiny French frilly panties that leave very little to the imagination.  Watching her shows was her little mouse of a husband, George 'Georgie' Ritchie, who never missed any of her shows during the entire time they were married.  Ever.  He was too devoted to his wife, worshipped the ground she walked on; too bad she never reciprocated the same feelings he felt towards her, for Brandy was well-known for partying with powerful various members of the mob.  When she really wanted something, that is.  Brandy never lost an opportunity to use her beautiful looks and curvaceous figure, as well as her expertise in sexually pleasuring men to get whatever (or whoever) she wanted...

And right now Brandy was really, really royally pissed.  She wasn't accustomed to getting treated like the rest of us peasants, for in her eyes she was Chicago royalty, and felt she should be treated as such.  "Goddammitt," the platinum blonde cursed, "get me outta this dump!  Don't ya mugs know who I am?"  

One of the jailers, a slight rotund middle-aged whose pockmarked face looked as though it had seen better years mutters, "everybody knows who you are, honey.  You're one of those Capone la-dee-da, hi-dough strippers broads, Brandy LaFrance.  Keep your bra on, honey and calm your hot ass down!"

Steaming, fuming, Brandy snarled, "it's _Miss_ LaFrance to  _you,_ copper.  You better watch how you talk to me, or I'll..."

Sneering, the jailer smirks, "do what?  Get mad and take all ya clothes off?  You're no better than any other stripper broad here in Chicago, honey."  Checking the flapper out from head-to-feet, licking his chapped lips the jailer grins, "Whatdaya think you got, baby, a gold-plated _ass_ or somethin?"

Brandy calls the jailer something foul, the insult only made him laugh out loud, causing the famous stripper to narrow her eyes with contempt.  "You're only mad 'cause I got too much class and sass", she hissed, "I'm too much of a real woman and a lady for a bum like you!"

It was the jailer's turn to laugh at the unbelievable statement Brandy just made.  Her, a lady??_

"You're no more a 'lady' that a street walker', he tackled laughing, a tiny line of spittle gently trailing down the left corner of his unshaven mouth, "hah!"

Some of the lady patrons, feeling a little sorry for Brandy, quickly defend her, "that's a terrible thing to say to her", one flapper, a gum-chewing woman in her mid-to-late twenties wearing a gold and orange colored flapper dress with matching shoes and gloves protested, "apologise!"

"Me?  Apologize?  That'll be the day!  I'll be damned, if I'd tell some bimbo stripper broad I'm sorry 'cause she's shown her tits to half the make population in Chicago almost every goddammed night.  This blonde bimbo bitch--" he points a dirty finger derisively in an outraged Brandy's direction, "--takes offa her clothes almost every damned night, in the end showing her barely covered tots with pasties, wearing a fluffy pair of French drawers!"

Some of the women say, "that's a awful thing to say!"

Continuing his nasty verbal onslaught, the jailer cracks, "well, hell, yeah.  And sometimes,  _sometimes,_ once in awhile when The Enforcer--" meaning Frank "The Enforcer" Nitti, who was in charge of Capone's Justice (enforcing Capone's commands to either beat up, or kill people who angered him) Department--"goes to Brandy's shows, and he wanna see some stripper titties he yells, 'show us your tits, honey, _all of it,_ this little big-titted broad would tear off her pasties and show Nitti and the other Capone mugs everything.  And _i do mean EVERYTHING._ With a smile.  A minute or so later, some of the mugs got on stage and copper a couple feels to her ass and snatch, while giving her $10s, 20s, and a $50 Bill.  Or two.  And the bitch smiled, while parting her legs wider, so that the mugs could really cop feels with their fingers between her legs, making her wet down there.  And in the end she took off her drawers, and one of the guys SCREWED HER, RIGHT THEN AND THERE!!!"

Oooo, I thought.  That's kinda nasty.  What some people willingly do to make some extra bucks.  Show a breast (nipple included).  Expose a butt-cheek, maybe both.  

Tears of humiliation pours down Brandy's face, at the jailer telling her business like that, like she's some street Booker or something...

"So ya dames need to think twice 'fore speaking up for this bitch.  She ain't no damned lady. It will be The fuck I Will Day in Hell before I'd even  _think_ 'bout treating and talking to this two-legged poor twat of a broad with ANY respect!"

The female patrons gasped at the coarse language the jailer used in their presence.  The majority of some of their haughty faces turned a deep beet-red. 

Me, I kept or tried to, keep an indifferent expression on my face but boy, oh boy, inwardly I found myself wincing.  Wow.

What a mouth this dude has, and take it from me, who doesn't exactly employ the most nicest language myself, but he could've have  _at least TRIED_ to curb it, just a little in front of these women.  Sheesh.

Ness, who in the other room, must have listened and heard the worst of what that jailer said, because he suddenly rushes into the room, roughly grabs the jailer by one of his arms.  Still gripping that same arm in a near iron bear trap-like hold, the leader of The Untouchables 'escorts' the now shocked jailer into another room, softly snarling, hissing out insulting, ice-cold derogatory stuff into his ears.  Whatever Ness must have saying in the man's ear must have been some really shady, terrible stuff because the jailer's rough, unshaven face was reddening, if not foul to several shades of red.

Several minutes later Ness and the jailer return back inside.  On the right side of his face, beginnings of a magnificent hand-shaped man's bruise was forming, a deep dark red, purplish coloring, which was slowly, but surely darkening.  His left eye was slightly swollen, surrounded with a little bruise coloring also reddish-purple, which will later get a lot more darker in time.

He slowly shuffled his way towards Brandy LaFrance, open hatred proudly glittering, shining in his good eye for the famous Chicago stripper woman.  He mutters, "Sorry 'bout the things I said--"

Ness snarls, "louder!  She--and the rest of us--can't hear you!"  

Mentally cursing and vilifying Ness, some of the women, and especially Brandy the bruised up jailer loudly says, "I apologize to all the ladies, especially  _Miss_ LaFrance, for the disrespectful things I'd said in this room." He suddenly felt an urge to want to puke,.barf whatever breakfast he had eaten earlier that morning directly in that stripper bitch's face, but he didn't want to get another vicious backhanded slap to the face by that Fed copper, Eliot Ness again.  He felt his stomach churn and burn as he continues his apology.  Brandy gives the jailer a malicious smirk, her dark blue eyes glittering and shinning with an open, unmistakable hatred.  Oh, God, he thinks, how he wanted if he could get away with it, take that stripper who're somewhere in an alleyway where no one would hear or see anything.  Fantasized of stripping all this bitch's clothes off, and screwed all three holes till he drops dead from getting all his jollies taken care.  Joyfully using his fists and feet, kicking the utter _shit_ outta her, pounding his fists onto her putrid face, over and over and over and over again there's nothing of her face left.  Stabbing, shoving and humping his malehood into her mouth, her twat, her sweet asshole, making her beg and scream for mercy--and getting none.  Unfortunately Capone, Nitti and the other Outfit guys would later find out and do things to HIM, to avenge that bitch, for she was one of their heavy money makers, and they would not take kindly to anything bad happening to her...

The first thing popping into my head was man, that was the mother-of-all  ** _bitch slaps._** A backhanded, heavy-duty,  first-class  _ **bitch slap.**_ _Man._ Ness must have put all his energies and power into that mean-ass slap to this poor bastard's face.

After making his apologies to Brandy LaFrance, who found herself tickled-pink at getting her honor defended, the jailer hurriedly zooms out the room, mentally plotting future vengeance on the stripper woman.  And on Ness, who worked over him, in front of all his feller jailers, his supervisors, the captain and sergeant who watched Ness back slap the holy shit outta him...

 


End file.
